Fireside Chats
by WhiteLadyoftheRing
Summary: A post-ep for Secret Santa.  Pete/Myka.


_Disclaimer: I own nothing at all._

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Through the years we all will be together,  
If the Fates allow.  
Hang a shining star upon the highest bough,  
And have yourself a merry little Christmas now._

The crackling of the fire greets him, heralding the warmth that masks the chill of the drawing room. Snow is still falling outside, glittering under the porch lights. Pete pads down the hallway barefoot – hands buried in the pockets of his sweatshirt – and isn't surprised to find Myka curled up on the sofa, wrapped tightly in a quilt and cradling a steaming cup of hot cocoa between her palms. She offers him a smile before gazing back into the fire. She's beautiful; with her hair wrangled into a curly mess at the base of her neck, and her fluffy slippers peeking out from beneath the quilt – she's beautiful.

"Can't sleep?" he ventures softly, as if he'll shatter the moment should he speak too loudly.

She shakes her head and lifts the edge of the quilt – a silent invitation to join her. "You?"

He settles in beside her, twisting his legs in with hers, trying to warm his feet. He earns a slight hiss from her when his icy toes make contact with the bare skin of her ankle. "Not really."

"A vibe?" she asks, teasing, and hands him a second mug of cocoa. Before he can ask, she adds, "I knew you were coming. Or at least, that someone was coming." She elbows him playfully in the ribs and adds, "If I'd known it was going to be you, I would have brought cookies too."

He hums his approval and takes a sip. The flames lick at a fresh log, and together they stare in silence. There is something particularly comforting about this moment, as if her presence and the fire and the cocoa are enough to soothe his mind from the trials of life. This has been a great Christmas, he decides, despite the words of disappointment from his mother when he'd called to say he wouldn't make it home. Too long has Christmas been spent focusing on loss, on the reminders of those not there. Here, there is no sadness, only the warmth of friendship and family burning bright. He hopes next year will be the same, with Claudia playing Santa and Joshua as her reluctant elf, with Artie and his father fighting over the piano, with Leena's homemade pies. With Myka sitting beside him, wearing her fuzzy slippers.

"Do you miss home?" she asks after some time. The fire has settled to a soft tumbling of flames, and they've both nearly emptied their mugs. Her eyes are soft and honest, and he feels like he's stepped into a moment far too intimate to possibly be meant for him.

"I do," he admits, and sips thoughtfully at his beverage. "But," he pauses, leaning forward to set his mug aside, "I don't think I'd rather be anywhere else right now."

She smiles into her cocoa, eyes glancing in his direction, firelight dancing across her face. "Me too," she confides and sets her mug on the table.

And then she's looking at him and he's looking back, and there's something magical about the fire and the snow, and her fuzzy slippers are getting more endearing by the second. She smiles at him, and for a brief moment he wonders if she's planned this, because he definitely fights the urge to make snide comments at her more than to kiss her. It takes all he has not to close the gap and press his lips to hers, and instead, he smiles back.

He clears his throat, feeling the intensity of the moment coming down on him like a freight train. "So, I . . . uh . . . got you something," he says, breaking eye contact and digging a hand back into the pocket of his sweatshirt. "At the airport."

"Pete," she sighs, rolling her eyes, "As much as I appreciate the Spiderman comics, I think I have enough to keep me occupied for quite a while."

He raises his eyebrows and dangles a simple silver chain in front of her, a small snowflake charm swinging back and forth. She gasps and holds out her hand so the chain curls in her palm. "Pete . . ." she breathes.

He clears his throat again, suddenly feeling awkward, stumbling over excuses. "Well," he says, scratching the back of his neck, "I know you like winter and . . . and snow. Oh, and ice skating! And I saw it at the bookstore and I thought, hey well I didn't really get Myka something she'd really like so maybe I should –"

"Pete," she says, cutting him off. "Shut up." She smiles at him, clasping the chain round her neck, and touches the pendant. "It's beautiful," she says, her voice softening. "Thank you."

He laughs awkwardly, not knowing how else to respond. "Well, really I –" he stops, going wide-eyed as she leans forward to press her lips to his cheek. Swallowing hard, he chokes, "You're welcome."

She smiles brightly at him and snuggles warmly under the quilt, watching the fire again. The flames have died some, casting shadows across Myka's face. Pete's arm settles around her, and her head settles against the hollow of his shoulder. She smells of Christmas – of cinnamon and pine needles – and her voice is soft and lilting. "Merry Christmas, Pete."

"Merry Christmas, Myka," he replies, his head settling on top of hers. The fire flickers with the memories of Christmas past, and Myka's breathing slows into a soft snore against his ear. He closes his eyes and smiles, listening to the crackle of the fire and the sound of Myka breathing. Outside, the snow continues to fall as he drifts off to sleep.


End file.
